


Snakes

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Family Bonding, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Manipulation, Pre-NWHS, Recovery, The Power Of Mabel, discussion of one-sided Gideon/Mabel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8201371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: When one of Stan's old "pals" shows up at the Mystery Shack, at first Mabel is super excited to meet Grunkle Stan's friend . . . or is he more than a friend? But as the rest of the house starts to warm up to this Jimmy Snakes character, Mabel becomes more and more certain that something is wrong. Grunkle Stan's being too quiet and his smiles don't look right. It's weird, and uncomfortably familiar.





	1. Chapter 1

Stan nearly hadn't recognized him at first; he hadn’t aged a day.

He’d run into one or two of his old pals in the last few years. You wouldn’t think that middle-of-nowhere Oregon was the kind of place too many people would pass through, but something about the town seemed to attract weirdos. If he was being honest, he'd probably say that that’s how he’d ended up there himself.

One of those reunions had ended with the two of them getting thrown out of the local biker bar, just like old times. The other one had ended with Stan chasing the man off with a shotgun while clutching at his bleeding side. Guess in a way that was also just like old times.

But both of them had been old, like him. Grizzled and wrinkled, with skin that was leathery from all their years on the road. Their long hair was more gray than not, and their arms were darkened with liver spots.

So when Jimmy Snakes sauntered into the Mystery Shack gift shop looking like he’d stepped straight out of 1978, Stan’s first reaction was disbelief. Must be some kind of doppelganger, a young man who just happened to look like his old . . . well. Something. His second reaction, when the man looked up at him with a familiar smirk, was that he was hallucinating. Mabel had put expired marshmallows in his breakfast again. His third reaction, when Jimmy sidled up and purred, “Hey, babe. It’s been a while,” into his ear was . . .

It was too many memories. Too many feelings at once. He froze, painfully aware of the blood rushing to his head, of the way his ears were burning. Aware of the tingle of Jimmy’s breath on the side of his face. Aware of Jimmy’s expression as he looked Stan up and down. Aware of the other customers in the gift shop. The way they were staring.

“Wendy!” Stan yelled.

The teenager looked up from the rack of postcards she’d been halfheartedly straightening. “Yeah, Mr. Pines?”

“Take over register duty!”

“Okay . . .”

Stan strode out the door and around the side of the Shack, past the displays of “real” “authentic” yeti bones, past the signs for the gift shop and the tree stump that looked vaguely like Abraham Lincoln, over to a quiet spot with no tourists around. He leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his breathing.

He couldn’t help but stare at the motorcycle that sat in the parking lot. It looked exactly the same too, right down to the lightning shaped scratch over the gas tank, so he knew it wasn't just a new bike of the same make and model. Course, it was easier to keep a bike looking new than a person.

He heard a chuckle and Jimmy appeared beside him, lighting up a cigarette. He offered one to Stan, but he shook his head.

“I don’t really . . . there’s kids around, ya know?”

Jimmy shrugged.

“So, uh . . .” At least out in the summer sun everything was sizzling, so he couldn’t feel the treacherous heat of his blush anymore. He hoped his ears were less red by now. Probably not. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Caught up with Frank over in Nebraska. He mentioned that old Stan Pines was running some tourist trap up here. Thought I’d come check it out.”

Never mind the ears, now Stan’s heart was pounding loud enough that they could probably hear it three states over. Which was as far as Jimmy had ridden, if his words could be trusted . . . to see him.

Jimmy gave him a familiar smile. “I don’t suppose you’d mind putting up an old friend for the night, would you?”

“I—” Stan began. “Sure. Yeah. There’s a couch in the break room. Just—”

Jimmy stepped away from the wall. He was still just as tall and thin and _confident_ as he’d ever been. He exhaled, sending trails of smoke spiraling across his face. Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the wall behind Stan’s head.

“A couch,” he chuckled. “Ain’t you cute?”

His other hand caught Stan’s chin. That was familiar too. Stan had already tensed his muscles and closed his eyes in anticipation when Jimmy shoved him back against the wall and kissed him violently. He only fought it for a moment.

It was just like old times.

*

“Hey-ooooh!”

Dipper followed after his sister as she burst into the gift shop. He recognized the song playing immediately—how could he not, Mabel had been singing “Text Me Possibly” all summer—and shooed the skittering hands out of her way before her dancing feet could get the better of her.

“Oh, hey guys!” Wendy waved at them from behind the register. “I’m glad you’re back; something super weird is going on.”

“Weirder than the fact that one of your coworkers is now a pair of disembodied hands that the Hand Witch is lending to us because she’s so happy about the cave makeover?” Dipper asked. He hoped that this worked out—or if it didn’t, the Hand Witch would come pick them up herself. That mountain gave him the creeps.

The hands peeked out from behind the counter and took turns waving at Wendy.

Wendy shrugged. “Eh. I don’t know about ‘weirder.’ Different weird though. There was this biker dude who came in—spiky jacket, bandana, ponytail, the works. He said something—I didn’t hear what it was, but it made Stan blush, like, as red as you do!”

Dipper was less than thrilled about being the resident Blush Barometer, but he was intrigued. “Are you sure he wasn’t just angry?”

“Pretty sure, dude. And then they went outside and they haven’t come back.”

“Oooo,” said Mabel. Dipper jumped as she appeared suddenly behind them, still dancing. “A mysterious stranger! Maybe Grunkle Stan likes bad boys!”

Dipper sighed. “Or, maybe, they just went outside to have a discussion like normal people! It’s probably another one of those crime things we’re supposed to pretend we don’t know about, like the chicken racing and the bubblegum ring.”

The other door dinged open and Stan walked in. His face _did_ look a little red. Following behind him was . . . well, Wendy had said ‘biker’ but somehow it hadn’t prepared Dipper for the sight that met his eyes. The man’s leather jacket bristled with spikes. His hair was long and lank enough that he probably would have fit in with the Manotaurs, and it was held back with a brightly-colored bandana.

“Hey, um, kids,” said Stan. “Wendy. This is my old pal Jimmy Snakes. He’ll be stoppin’ here for the night. Just go . . . just go buy yourselves a pizza and stay out of his hair, okay?”

“Whooh!” Mabel shouted. “PI-ZZA! PI-ZZA! PI-ZZA!” Dipper and Wendy joined in the chant.

“Don’t you want any, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asked. “We can get you some without any peppers or glitter on it!”

Stan shook his head. “Nah, kid. I’m . . . I’m fine. Just take some money from the register; whatever you need.”

He and the strange man—what kind of a last name was “Snakes?”—passed through the door to the main area of the house. Everyone watched them go in silence.

Dipper waited for the door to close and then counted to ten. He had a pretty good idea of how well sound carried in the Shack. After he was sure they wouldn’t hear him, he turned to Wendy.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Something is definitely very wrong.”

“Yeah . . .” Mabel admitted. “That was weird. Grunkle Stan never lets us order pizza.”

“He said you should take money out of the register,” said Wendy. “He’s _never_ done that before.”

Mabel looked at the closed door and pursed her lips. “Maybe he’s happy because his friend is here?” she suggested.

Dipper scoffed. “Did that look happy to you? Something’s going on here, and we’re going to figure out what it is!”

“Yeah!” the other two chorused. Then Wendy added, “Okay, but . . . pizza first, right?”

*

“Grunkle Stan?”

Mabel peered around the door, where her Grunkle and his friend were sitting at the table. They had a pack of cards out but it didn’t look like they were playing. Jimmy Snakes, which she thought was a pretty cool name, was chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette. She wrinkled her nose at that, but at least he hadn’t lit it! He was being considerate!

Stan turned around. He didn’t _look_ like he was catching up with a friend. He looked tired. And of course seeing friends could make you tired, but that was usually after you’d stayed up all night singing and screaming and seeing how many different kinds of candy you could melt together. Stan’s friend had just gotten here.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“We just wanted to make super duper sure that you didn’t want any pizza!” said Mabel brightly. “It’s really good! We got three kinds and none of them have any vegetables!”

Stan gave her a tight smile, but Jimmy laughed. “Maybe we should, kitten. Not like we can’t talk with kids around.” He laughed again.

Mabel’s eyes widened. _Kitten_. That wasn’t a friend-type name. That was an oh-we-have-a-history name, and Detective Mabel was going to snoop out that history at the first opportunity!

“Oh,” said Stan. “Yeah. Sure.”

But Stan didn’t seem happy. Was it because Jimmy was a man? Was it because they had a tragic star-crossed past? It was time for dinner and details!

“We’ll just bring the pizza in here!” she said. “The table’s bigger! You just keep doing what you’re doing!”

Before she left for the kitchen, she leaned around the doorframe one last time and yelled, “Wink!”

Jimmy laughed. Stan didn’t.

*

Frank had been right. Jimmy didn’t feel too bad about letting him go in exchange for the information; the husk of his soul would barely have kept him going for another week. It was slim pickings these days; most people he ran into were so miserable and afraid that their souls flickered like faulty electric candles. Hardly worth the trouble of consuming them. He passed by souls that were so bright they’d be able to sustain him for years, but those people weren’t the type to barter them away for the handful of tricks he could offer.

Stan, now . . . that was a different story. Jimmy suspected he wouldn’t need to offer anything at all.

The man was being coy, but Jimmy knew he’d get over it soon enough. There hadn’t been much chance to talk before the kids had shown up with dinner. And outside . . . well, he’d gotten sidetracked. After dinner Stan showed Jimmy to the bedroom, muttering the location of the shower and towels while he scratched nervously at the back of his neck, and then fled to make sure his niece and nephew weren’t lighting anything on fire.

Jimmy did a little snooping around before he took advantage of the shower. Stan still had his old helmet and biker jacket in the closet. Jimmy smiled. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

By the time Stan returned, Jimmy was drying his hair.

“Hey. Just, uh, checking in. See if you needed anything . . .”

Jimmy patted the bed beside him. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

Stan took a few steps into the room, but he didn’t close the door behind him. He looked stiff, and the light of his soul was dim and inconsistent. He took a deep breath.

“Jimmy. You left me. You can’t just . . . waltz back here and—”

“I came here to apologize!” Jimmy said, putting on his best expression of injured innocence. Stan’s body language didn’t change, but Jimmy could see his soul flare with hope.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he continued. “We’d barely gone a day when I realized. I split off from the rest of the gang and turned back, but I couldn’t find you.”

He could already tell that Stan was softening. “I kept looking, Stan. I looked for years, and I’d almost given up when I ran into Frank.”

Stan was quiet for a while, but when he looked back at Jimmy his voice was soft and the light of his soul was steady. “. . . You . . .really came looking for me?”

Jimmy nearly rolled his eyes. It really was too easy when they were this lonely.

“Of course I did, kitten,” he lied. “I know I treated you wrong. You probably won’t forgive me; I know I haven’t been able to forgive myself, but—”

That was all it took. Stan closed the door, closed the distance between them, and didn’t resist when Jimmy pulled him down onto the bed and pinned him in place.

“Of course I forgive you,” he gasped as Jimmy helped him struggle out of the suit jacket. “Of course I do. Of course.”

*

“Look, Mabel, I don’t understand what the problem is! You wanted him to be nice and then he was! I mean, I guess Wendy and I pegged him wrong but that happens. Why are you upset now?”

Mabel scrunched up her face and rolled over. She’d painted her toes, and Waddles’ toes, and tried to get Dipper to let her paint _his_ toes, and the way he’d squawked when she suggested it had cheered her up for a minute, but she felt uneasy.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess . . .”

Jimmy _had_ been nice. He let Dipper tell his weird stories without interrupting, and laughed when Mabel told jokes. He was kind of mysterious about himself and whatever his past with Grunkle Stan was, but so was Grunkle Stan, so there wasn't really anything bad about that. He was funny, and handsome in a strange spiky way. And he seemed really happy to be here with his . . . friend-or-possibly-more-than-a-friend.

Maybe if Grunkle Stan had seemed happier to _have_ him there, Mabel wouldn't be worrying. But Grunkle Stan had spent dinner not acting like Grunkle Stan. He was quiet and he didn’t grumble about anything, not even when Mabel snuck pizza crusts to Waddles under the table.

He smiled a lot, but it wasn't the kind of smile he had when he was playing with her and Dipper. Or even the big, goofy smile he made when he was leading a tour or talking to the police. It was small and uncertain and . . . weirdly familiar. And he kept sitting with his shoulders hunched forwards, the way he did when he was pretending not to be upset, or when he had to admit to something. Or the way he sometimes did back when Gideon's commercials that made fun of him and the Shack used to come on.

Though, to be honest . . . Mabel was pretty glad those commercials didn't air anymore anyway. She didn't like seeing him on TV.

She wanted to be happy for Grunkle Stan, but only if he was happy for himself. And he wasn’t.

And she was worried.

“Don’t you think Grunkle Stan acted weird?”

Dipper scoffed and threw a chewed-up pen cap at her. She made a face and tossed it back.

“Grunkle Stan always acts weird. He _is_ weird.”

“Yeah,” said Mabel. “But like . . . different weird. Not-good weird.”

Dipper perked up. “Weird like he's being mind-controlled by some otherworldly being?”

“No. I just think he seemed . . . upset.”

Dipper laughed. “You’re worrying too much. That’s my job.”

“Yeah,” said Mabel. “Watch out, I’m gonna turn into you!” She grabbed Dipper’s hat off the bedpost and put on her best squeaky puberty voice. “The moon is made of cheese and the moon landing was arranged by mouse people infiltrating the government for lunar cheese-mining!”

“Hey,” Dipper yelled with a laugh. “Give that back!”

He chased her around the room until they both tripped over Waddles and collapsed in a giggling heap on the floor.

“Feel better?” Dipper asked.

Mabel grinned. “Yeah.”

She wasn’t lying. She did feel better. But . . . it didn't mean she'd stopped thinking about that smile Stan had. The one that didn't feel right and disappeared when he thought no one was looking.

She hadn't asked him or Jimmy directly about whether they were friends or more-than-friends, of course. She didn't want to be rude, or embarrass anyone. But she hadn't been able to help asking a couple of really subtle questions in the hopes of finding out just what was going on. And when she'd mentioned offhandedly that Grunkle Stan was still single despite being only _kind_ of gross and beautiful in his own special way, Jimmy had laughed and Stan had smiled . . . but it was an _icky_ smile. The kind that, every time she replayed it in her memory, looked more and more like a wince.

Mabel looked over at the cardboard box in the corner, the one that had X's and yuck faces painted on the side and was filled almost to the brim with unopened envelopes. She’d gotten another letter from the prison that morning. The next time one came she was going to burn the lot of them. Again.

*

“I missed you,” Stan whispered later, when he thought Jimmy was asleep. Jimmy grinned, feeling the bright pulse of the other man’s soul beside him. It was so tempting to just take it, to feel full for the first time in years. Stan wouldn’t say no. He never did—at least not for long.

“Hey, babe?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t suppose you could do me a favor.”

“Anything,” muttered Stan sleepily, nuzzling his face into Jimmy’s hair. “Anything at all.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

Jimmy smiled. And that was that. The legalities of his situation were a complex business, but _anything_ was a foolish promise to make at the best of times. He rolled over and stroked Stan’s cheek. He could feel the soul now as well as see it. It was his, and he could claim it any time he wanted to. It was fun, sometimes, to see how long he could wait until hunger got the better of him, but it wouldn’t be long this time. He was ravenous. He reached out . . .

Abruptly, Stan lifted his head. Jimmy could sense the two bright young souls approaching before he heard the sound of their feet. They crept past the door and ran off towards the kitchen.

“Kids shouldn’t be up,” said Stan. He groaned at the way his back cracked as he sat up on the edge of the bed. “I better check on ‘em.”

“Come on,” Jimmy wheedled. “They’ll be fine.” He was shocked when Stan ignored him, pulling on his undershirt and boxers and shuffling over to the door.

“Just gotta make sure Mabel doesn’t get into the sugar at this hour,” Stan explained with an apologetic shrug. “I promise, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Jimmy lay back in the empty bed. He frowned. Stupid kids. Tomorrow he’d take Stan out for a ride, somewhere far away from the house and the kids and all the other distractions that made him so un-cooperative. Just the two of them. And then it would be just the one of them. And then he could get out of this mess of a town.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the three souls converging in the kitchen: the small one that flickered like a bonfire, the small one that glowed like a star, and . . . well. Would you look at that. Maybe the kids weren’t so useless after all.

He’d thought that between his apology and the afterglow he’d bolstered Stan’s soul up as much as it could be, but as soon as he entered the kitchen the brightness spiked. Jimmy pursed his lips and ignored the growing hunger he felt. Maybe it was time to update his plan.

*

“Oh, hey Grunkle Stan!”

That’s what Mabel had been trying to say, but it was kind of hard to talk with a mouthful of cold pizza, so it came out sounding like some sort of puppet language.

“It’s late.” Stan squinted at them. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his hair was even messier than Dipper’s, which was impressive since she knew that, unlike her brother, Stan actually owned a hairbrush and used shampoo. “What are you kids doing up?”

“Mabel couldn’t sleep,” said Dipper.

Mabel swallowed her mouthful of pizza and added, “Yeah, so we went on a midnight snack mission! Did we wake you up?”

“Nah.” Stan shook his head. “I, uh, couldn’t sleep either.”

“Do _you_ want a midnight snack?!”

Stan chuckled and ruffled her hair. She squeaked.

He seemed happier than before. Maybe it was because Jimmy wasn’t there. Or maybe they’d talked and things were better? That would be nice, but she just couldn’t believe it. She kept remembering Stan’s uncomfortable little smile during dinner and it made her stomach feel all lurch-y, like she’d eaten a cup full of sprinkles that were trying to turn into bees.

“Not hungry. Listen . . . Jimmy might stick around for a couple more days. That all right?”

“Sure,” said Dipper. He mouthed “ _See?_ ” at Mabel.

She pulled a face at him, trying to keep the sprinkle-bees in her stomach quiet. They didn't want to calm down. Jimmy was supposed to stay for just one night! That's what Grunkle Stan had said. It felt icky having him in the house.

“I don't like him!” she blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Stan laughed at the look on her face. “That's okay. I know he can be a little . . . rough around the edges. It'll just be couple more days.” He scratched at the back of his neck. She knew that meant he was nervous; it was like Dipper's pen-clicking. “And, uh, if it makes a difference . . . I like him. I'm not just letting him stay here outta the goodness of my heart.”

“Wait . . .” Mabel narrowed her eyes. There was a time and a place for subtlety, and the kitchen in the middle of the night wasn't it. She was getting to the bottom of this. “Like, or like-like?”

“Ah, quit it with the young-people lingo!” said Stan. “Can't understand a word you're saying!” But he was blushing as he said it, which pretty much answered her question.

If she'd found that out before dinner, she would have been thrilled. But now . . . those imaginary sprinkle-bees were really partying it up. She couldn't shake the feeling that something about this was wrong.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Stan cautioned, shaking his finger at them. “And no getting into the candy!”

“Grunkle Stan?” Mabel called as he stood up to go. She knew she had something really really important to ask but she wasn’t sure how to say it. “Is . . . everything okay?”

He grinned. “Everything’s great, sweetie!”

It was a real grin. Not a tourist grin and not a lying-to-the-cops grin. He really looked happy, which she knew meant she should be happy too. But the lurch-y feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. As Stan walked back to his room she could see a bruise on his shoulder. That didn’t mean anything bad. Mabel knew that; she found mystery bruises all the time. That was just life! But it made her heart do an unhappy little flip.

Even with her belly full from the midnight snack and Waddles lying next to her having happy little pig dreams, the sun was beginning to rise by the time Mabel fell back to sleep. She dreamed about a dancing lobster wearing a biker helmet. When she woke up, the motorcycle in the lot outside was gone.

So was Grunkle Stan.


	2. Chapter 2

“So who’s your friend, Mr. Mystery?”

Jimmy grinned at the frumpy one-eyed waitress who’d just set down their menus. He'd eaten in some run-down places before, but this one was a whole new level. He was pretty sure he'd seen a couple of raccoons scuttling across the floor when they came in. Not that it mattered. He wasn't here because of the food.

“Um,” Stan stuttered. “Well, he—”

“Boyfriend, actually,” said Jimmy. Stan flushed and fell silent. “We lost touch. Finally found him again after all those years. Ain’t that right, kitten?”

He hooked Stan’s chin with his thumb, turning his face so he could kiss him. He almost laughed at the simultaneous discomfort and desperation; Stan hated public displays of affection but at the same time he was so hungry for any scrap of affection he could get, so he’d be stiff and then melt and then go stiff again. It was always so entertaining.

He broke the kiss just as Stan’s mouth slid open, leaving him blinking and mouthing at the air like a fish. “Y-yeah,” he said. “That’s right.”

“You know,” said Jimmy, with a wink at the waitress, “I was just about to ask him to come with me. Just us and the open road . . . You think that Shack could hold up for a while without him?”

“Oh, of course!” she said eagerly. “You take as much time as you need!”

“But—” Stan began.

“You work so hard, babe,” said Jimmy. “You deserve the break.”

“Well, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it!” The waitress backed away, tittering.

Jimmy knew the type. She’d make sure everyone in town knew that Stan Pines had ridden off into the sunset with his old flame. And she wouldn’t exactly be wrong.

He reached out under the table and put his hand on Stan’s thigh, smirking into his coffee at both the immediate jolt of discomfort and the way that it made Stan’s soul flare with emotion. Stan laid a hand on his, trying to lace their fingers together, but Jimmy slapped it away.

He took a long pull of his coffee, his fingernails curling deeper into Stan’s leg as he bathed in the glow of his soul. All his.

People loved stories about riding off into the sunset, but no one ever thought to ask what happened once night fell.

*

Dipper had been trying to calm his sister down for five minutes, and he was running out of ideas. None of the usual tactics were working. He’d tried distracting her with stickers, giving her Waddles to hug, hugging her himself, calmly explaining the situation, encouraging her to dance along to the radio, and joining forces with the disembodied hands to tickle her. She wouldn’t even eat the emergency chocolate bar he’d produced from his vest pocket.

Instead, she was curled up on the floor meowing sadly. The worker hands were braiding her hair.

“Okay.” Dipper turned to Wendy. “You were at dinner with Stan's friend. What do you think?”

“Look, man.” Wendy shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Sure he was kinda skeevy, but I’d be more surprised about your Grunkle hanging out with someone who _wasn’t_ skeevy. They certainly seemed pretty friendly this morning. If you ask me they probably just ran off to rob a leather goods store or get up to some gross old man hanky-panky.” She shuddered at the thought.

Mabel's meows just kept getting louder.

“Why are you so sure that something's wrong?” Dipper asked.

“I don’t know!” Mabel wailed. “I don’t know, but Jimmy makes me feel all gross inside and I hate it! It's like he makes the air slimy! I just want Grunkle Stan to come home!”

She sunk down into the corner and pulled her sweater up over her head.

“Look,” said Dipper. “Maybe once the Shack’s closed, Soos and Wendy can go see if they’re just in town or something. And we can stay here for when he comes back. Sound good?”

From the depths of Sweater Town, Mabel nodded.

*

Jimmy swung his bike to a stop in a flurry of gravel. The sun was setting but the half-moon hung low in the sky.

“We’re here, babe.”

Stan unwrapped his arms from Jimmy’s waist and stepped up onto the grass. “Huh,” he said. “Lived in this town for thirty years and I never noticed how nice this place is.”

“It has its perks,” Jimmy said.

The stretch of grass in front of them was lush, with a beautiful view of the sky and the woods. But more importantly, it was remote. There were no houses nearby, only a factory that was already shut for the day, and the road was a dead end so there would be no traffic. They were even at the edge of a steep ravine, which would make clean-up easy. It was always so inconvenient dealing with the bodies.

In cities, no matter what you did, people found them so quickly. But out here it could be weeks, maybe months before Stan was found. Unless, of course, the kids noticed the little present he’d left them. He smirked.

Jimmy liked to wait until it was properly dark to head out on the road. He had some time to kill. It was bad form to play with his food, but Stan had always been so . . . pliable . . . that it was hard to resist. He stepped forward, resting one hand on Stan’s hip.

Stan squared his shoulders and turned toward him. “Listen, Jimmy. About the diner . . . I can’t just run off. I’ve got the business to look after. The kids . . .”

Jimmy pushed Stan away and fixed him with a hurt expression.

“Come on,” he whined. “Don’t you love me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I came all the way out here to find you. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered.”

“No!” Stan sputtered. “No, I’m sorry—”

“Well . . .” Jimmy stepped closer again and let his fingers play over the line of Stan’s jaw. “Maybe you can make it up to me.” He smirked at the shiver his touch sent through Stan’s body, at the way it made his soul flare and flicker with a combination of fear and longing.

*

“No!” said Mabel, shaking her head and pacing back and forth across the floor. “No no no no no! This is all wrong! He wouldn’t _do_ this!”

“He did run away to Las Vegas for two days without telling us anything,” Dipper pointed out.

“I know!” Mabel stopped pacing and scrunched down into the corner. “I know he’s done lots of things _like_ this, but he wouldn’t do _this_. I just—I just know it!”

Dipper sighed. He could try calling Wendy back, but he didn’t know what else she’d be able to tell him. Lazy Susan had said that Stan and Jimmy were planning to leave town together, and yeah, that was probably stupid, but it was exactly the kind of stupid thing that Grunkle Stan _would_ do. Dipper would be content to sit around complaining about exactly how stupid it was and ordering pizza with register money every day to teach Stan a lesson about responsibility . . . except that Mabel was terrified, and nothing he could do would calm her down. If only there was some way to prove that Grunkle Stan was just running around being irresponsible the way he always did . . .

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “I know! When I was searching his room for Agent Powers’ card there was a biker jacket in the closet. You know he likes dressing the part; if he was going to go off riding with Jimmy he would have taken it with him! If it’s gone we’ll know Lazy Susan was right. Will that make you feel better?”

Mabel nodded.

Dipper took Mabel's hand as they headed to Stan's room, ignoring the “no minors!” sign that still hung on the door. Stan’s room still felt strange and mysterious, even though Dipper knew it was just full of gross old-person stuff. And it was grosser this time; he wrinkled his nose at the smell of smoke that hit them when they pushed open the door. As soon as they crossed the threshold Mabel buried her head deep down into the neck of her sweater—not quite to Sweater Town, but close.

Dipper crossed over to the wardrobe and threw it open. “There! See? . . . Oh.”

The jacket and helmet were still there, untouched. Except . . . there was a piece of paper sticking out of one of the jacket’s pockets. Dipper could have sworn that it hadn’t been there the last time he saw it.

It was normal cheap notebook paper, folded up into a square with a crude drawing of a snake with X’s for eyes on the front. Heart pounding, Dipper unfolded it.

No. Nonononono . . .

“. . . Dipper?”

“You were right.” Dipper grabbed his sister’s arm and half-dragged her from the room. “We have to go. We have to go _now_.”

“Right about what?” Mabel protested. “Go where? What did you find?”

Dipper didn’t want to show her the note, but he couldn’t explain it. He passed it over to Mabel and she made one small, soft whimpering noise as she read it.

_Looking for the old man? Try the ravine behind 412 Gopher Road. He might still be there, if the scavengers haven't gotten to him by now._

_I'll make sure he's thinking about you when he dies. You should see how bright his soul glows whenever he talks about the two of you. Which suits me fine, given I'll need a soul as bright as a forest fire to keep me going for the next century or two. So in a way, I've got you to thank for what I've got coming to me_ _._

The place was just up the road, behind the Gleeful family factory. There wasn’t time to call Soos for a ride, but it was only a few minutes if they ran. They could make it in time. They could make it. They could make it.

Dipper couldn’t let himself think about the alternative.

*

Stan lay back on the grass. He was happy. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d been properly happy. There were other feelings bubbling underneath, but he pushed them away. He needed this, just to be happy. Just for a moment.

Jimmy’s fingers tangled in his hair.

“Tell me about your niece and nephew,” he said.

Stan laughed and leaned into the touch. “Those little stinkers? Don’t know why their parents even sent them up here. But . . . it’s been nice having them around, Jimmy. They’re lousy workers, but they’re good kids . . .”

He kept talking, a sleepy smile on his face. Jimmy ran his hands through Stan’s hair, and it felt . . . strange. There was an ache at the back of his scalp. Maybe he’d hit his head on something earlier, when they were . . . well. Jimmy was always a little rough. But now his fingers were gentle. Had he ever been this gentle before?

“Grunkle Stan!”

Stan blinked, struggling to lift his head.

“Grunkle Stan, look out!”

“What?” Stan tried to say, but he was too tired. His tongue wouldn’t move.

Then Jimmy started to laugh, and his fingers twisted painfully into Stan’s hair, pulling him to his feet.

“You’re too late, kids!” he snarled. “He’s mine.”

With a great effort, Stan managed to look up. Jimmy’s eyes were glowing and there was a strange glowing . . . something . . . stretching from Stan’s body to Jimmy’s mouth.

Well. That was a hell of a thing. He probably should have asked more questions about how young Jimmy looked. How time didn't seem to have passed for him. But whenever he came close to bringing up the subject. . . . well. Jimmy had ways of making it hard to ask.

In the end, it probably wouldn't have made a difference.

“No! Grunkle Stan!”

The kids shouldn’t have to see this, Stan thought.

“Come on, Grunkle Stan, you have to fight him!”

Fight him? Stan tried to lift his hand, and Jimmy curled his fingers tighter into his hair. And with that, all the strength went out of him. Stan knew there was no point. Even if he struggled his way out of Jimmy's grip, this wasn't a physical fight. Not really. As soon as he'd seen Jimmy's face in the gift shop he was already lost.

He dropped his hand and lowered his head, defeated.

*

Mabel got there first, grabbing onto Stan’s hand and screaming as she tried to pull him away. Dipper was right behind her. Stan’s arm was limp and wouldn’t move, however much he tugged on it.

“Grunkle Stan, _please_!”

Jimmy looked at them and laughed. His eyes were glowing but nothing else about him looked different. Somehow, that made things worse. Dipper had been expecting fangs or a forked tongue or flames—something obviously demonic. But he just looked like a man with light reflecting across his eyes. His smile was a human smile.

It made Dipper want to throw up.

He and Mabel kept tugging on Stan’s hands, shouting for him to fight, but he wouldn’t even look at them. Slowly, as Jimmy’s fingers tightened in his hair, he sank to his knees. His eyes began to flutter closed.

Dipper screamed. He didn’t know what else to do—maybe if he’d been able to do research he could have helped, but there was nothing in the Journal and there wasn’t time—

“Wait!” Mabel yelled. Jimmy cocked his head at her, but he didn’t stop. Mabel bit her lip and wiped the tears from her eyes, and then she screamed, “I’ll make you a deal!”

Jimmy lifted his hand from Stan’s head and he toppled forward, taking Dipper down with him.

“Mabel, no!” he cried from the ground.

His sister turned and stared at him with a defiant look in her eyes. “Trust me,” she said.

Then she looked up at Jimmy, who was lighting a new cigarette and grinning.

“My soul for his. That’s a good deal, right? I mean, he’s old and cranky and with all the stealing and everything there must be an awful lot of tarnish to clean up. I’m twelve and happy and the worst thing I’ve ever done is try to keep a boy band as pets for a couple of days.”

A great, slow smile spread across Jimmy’s face. He nodded. “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”

“No!” Dipper screamed. He couldn’t move with Stan on top of him, only cry out in desperation. “Mine is better! Take me instead!”

“So.” Mabel was starting to shiver. “Is this one of those handshake dealies, or . . . ?”

Jimmy held out a hand. “Works for me.”

Dipper thrashed under the weight of Stan’s body. He could feel his uncle beginning to stir, but it was too little too late. His voice was starting to give out from screaming.

Mabel squared her shoulders and held out her hand. Stan raised his head just in time to watch Jimmy shake it.

Dipper and Stan stared, frozen in horror, as Jimmy threw back his head and cackled. Mabel stood perfectly still with her hand in his.

“No,” Dipper whimpered. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Jimmy looked down and took in the two of them watching from the ground.

“So how’s it feel, Stan?” he said. “You finally found someone dumb enough to love you and you went and got her killed! But what else should I expect from a pathetic waste of space like you? I would have been doing the world a favor by consuming your soul!” When Stan didn’t respond, Jimmy started laughing again, wildly, uncontrollably—

“Yeesh,” said Mabel. “Drama queen.”

Everything stopped.

Mabel stepped backwards, shaking out the sleeves of her sweater. “Boop!” she said as her real hand poked out. “Sorry about the disembodied hand, Grunkle Stan. I stole it from the gift shop.”

“. . . That’s fine, pumpkin,” said Stan. He sounded like he was in shock. Dipper probably would have sounded that way too if he could calm down enough to make words. What was Mabel thinking? What was she—

“Well, then the deal’s off,” snarled Jimmy. He grabbed Stan by the hair and pulled him back to his feet. But this time Stan stared straight back at him, his glasses askew and fury in his eyes, and raised his fist in a left hook.

Jimmy went down like a tree.

“Don’t you _ever_ touch these kids,” Stan growled. “And while you’re at it don’t you touch me! Not ever again!”

“You’re mine,” Jimmy hissed from the ground. “You can’t escape . . .”

“Watch me.”

Stan scooped Mabel up in one arm and Dipper in the other. He was squeezing them too tightly, but Dipper didn’t care. He wrapped one arm around Stan’s neck and with the other he clutched Mabel’s hand. Her real hand, safe and warm.

Stan turned to walk away. He only got a few steps before he paused and turned back.

“I don’t know what bullets do to a snake like you,” he said, “But come to my house again, mess with my family _ever_ again, and I’ll make sure we both find out.”

He walked stiff and straight until Jimmy was out of sight, and then maybe a tenth of a mile farther. Then he sunk to the ground and clutched Dipper and Mabel to his chest.

“What were you _thinking_?” It was clear he was trying to scold her, but the tears that rolled down his nose to splash in her hair meant it wasn’t very convincing.

“You wouldn’t fight to save yourself,” said Mabel simply. “But I knew you’d fight to save me.”

“Don’t do that to me, kid,” Stan croaked. “I thought . . . I told you I couldn’t live with myself if one of you got hurt on my watch.”

Mabel wriggled in his grip until she was facing him. “Well what are we supposed to do if you get hurt on ours, huh? If you don’t want us scaring you then you’ve got to stop scaring us!”

Her lip started trembling, so Dipper squeezed her hand and took over. “Yeah! He almost killed you, Grunkle Stan! It was like you didn’t even care!”

“I—” Stan stuttered. He didn’t seem to be able to get any more words out, so he just lowered his head and hugged the kids close. Dipper was sure that if he asked Stan would insist he wasn’t crying. So he didn’t ask, just hugged back.

They stayed that way for a long time. When they finally got back to the Shack, no one talked about going to bed. Stan bolted all the doors and set his shotgun next to the T-Rex skull in the living room, and then they all piled into Stan's overstuffed armchair. Dipper fell asleep curled into the crook of his uncle's arm, with the drone of some bad movie in the background and Mabel's hand clutched in his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains implied sexual assault and lots of internalized victim-blaming. If you want to skip the worst of it, don't read from the paragraph that begins "Because that was the thing, wasn't it?" to "Not that he could tell Mabel any of that."

Time had passed. Jimmy hadn’t come back. The weapons that had dotted the Shack for the first few days were starting to disappear again. Things were normal.

At least, they were supposed to be.

Mabel tiptoed down the stairs. If she couldn’t fall asleep, the least she could do was make sure it was for a good reason, and sugar was the best reason there was. She paused outside the door of Stan’s room, listening. There was no noise. She frowned and kept going.

Dipper kept saying that Stan was fine. Mabel knew he was better than he had been when Jimmy was there, but there were still times he seemed off. Smaller. More afraid. She hated it.

And he wouldn’t talk about anything! Every time she tried he’d change the subject or run away. Once he’d actually thrown a smoke bomb and locked himself in his office. She’d mostly stopped trying after that.

She knew the kitchen well enough now that she could make hot chocolate without turning on the overhead light. As she waited for the water to boil she ate a spoonful of mix right from the canister. After a moment, she added some chocolate chips and a handful of N&N’s to her mug. Mabel hot chocolate was never boring!

She heard a noise and jumped before she realized what it was. A snore, coming from the living room. She peered around the door and could make out Stan asleep in his armchair, illuminated by the flickering light of the TV.

All right. They were going to talk. This was happening.

She pulled out another mug.

*

Stan knew he was dreaming.

It was easy to tell when Ford was there. It had been a long time since dream-logic was strong enough to convince him he was really seeing his brother. He didn't have enough hope left in him to be tricked like that any more. 

Ford always looked like he had when he'd gone through the portal: the wild eyes and the tattered coat and the shaking hands. Sometimes the whole dream was Ford falling into the Portal. Stan would try everything, but no matter how fast he jumped he could never reach Ford's hand in time to pull him back, and he watched his brother's screaming face on loop until he woke up. Sometimes he dreamed that Ford was dying, shooting Stan one last accusing look before he collapsed on the surface of some alien world.

Tonight, Dream Ford stood at the foot of his bed and shook his head.

“Really, Stanley?” he said. Stan flinched. Dreams like this were the only time he heard the name. He didn't even call himself 'Stanley' anymore. “That's what your soul is worth to you? A few carnal encounters and the pretense of affection?”

“I'm sorry.” He always said it. It never made a difference.

Ford paced around the room, looking with disgust at the clothes that were strewn across the floor. He nudged Jimmy's jacket with his foot.

“While you and your demon lover were defiling _my_ bed, my time's been running out. You know that, don't you? You know how old you're getting, how much time you've wasted?”

“I know,” said Stan. “I know, I'm sorry.”

Ford looked up at him coldly. “It doesn't really matter. It isn't as if a neanderthal like you could ever fix the portal. You were idiotic enough to believe that man cared about you. That he _loved_ you.” He laughed. “As if anyone could love such a pitiful waste of space.”

“I'm sorry,” said Stan again.

“It's okay,” said Ford.

“What?”

“It's okay, Grunkle Stan.”

Ford's voice was changing, growing softer, higher pitched. His face blurred as the room began to dissolve around them. Of course. Stan wasn't really there He hadn't been able to sleep in his room—Ford's room—ever since . . .

The face in front of him solidified into something small and round and worried. Stan blinked.

“Wha? Mabel?”

His great-niece waved at him. “The one and only!”

“What are you doing up?”

She clambered onto his lap, snuggling up against the pudge of his tummy.

“I meowed for like half an hour and I still couldn’t sleep,” she said. “So I made cocoa. And then I saw you and I thought you might like cocoa too! So I made some more.” She pointed to two mugs sitting on the dinosaur skull.

Stan grunted. “You been having lots of trouble sleeping?”

Mabel shook her head. “Nope! Just tonight. But I did notice you’ve been sleeping in your chair a lot . . .”

Stan shook a finger at her. “I knew it! You’re trying to make me talk about my feelings! Well it ain’t working, pal!”

Mabel didn’t say anything for a while. She sipped her cocoa and curled up tightly against him. He could feel her nervously curling her toes. When she'd eaten most of her marshmallows and her face was stained pink, she sighed and said, “What about listening to me talk about mine?”

“Fine.” Stan grabbed his own mug, wishing it was something stronger, and took a gulp. He immediately regretted it. He wasn’t sure what Mabel had put in there and it wasn’t . . . bad, exactly, but it was more flavors than his barely-awake mind knew how to process.

“I didn’t tell you much about Gideon, did I?” Mabel asked after a while.

“Um,” said Stan, “Apart from his multiple attempts to steal the Shack and destroy our entire family?”

“Before that.” Mabel swirled her mug in front of her so that the melted pink marshmallow pieces spun around the edges. “When I kind of dated him.”

Stan chuckled. “Only kind of? You were the talk of the town!”

“I . . . didn't want to,” said Mabel.

Stan stiffened. “Wait, what? I mean, I know he got all vengeful after you dumped him—smart move, by the way—”

“I didn't want to date him in the first place,” said Mabel. “Not ever.” She knocked down the rest of her cocoa dramatically so she could set her mug down and wind her arms around Stan's chest.

He stared straight ahead at the cracks in the wall above the TV. Her last words kept circling around in his head. “Not ever.” But then . . . had she been going out with him against her will? He hadn't known. Of course he hadn't known. But . . . he'd signed that stupid contract with Bud Gleeful, showed up at the house in that stupid shirt . . . Mabel must have thought he didn't care about her at all, that he'd let her be miserable if it meant he could make more money—

“Hey!” Mabel headbutted him gently. “We're not playing freeze tag. Unless you want to! But it wouldn't really work with two people.”

She squeezed him tighter. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her until she was almost hidden from the rest of the room.

“I know you didn't know,” she said. “It was way back at the beginning of the summer and we didn't know about the squishy marshmallow center under all your crustiness and then afterwards it made me feel all icky so I didn't want to talk about it. But that's why I'm telling you now!”

She looked up from the cocoon of his arms and smiled at him. It was a little shaky, but he'd learned to read people's eyes as well as their faces . . . a few obvious blind spots aside. Mabel was nervous, and kind of uncomfortable, but she wasn't scared. He squeezed her and she flashed him one of those grins that took over her whole face. Honestly it seemed to take over his face, too, because he couldn't help but smile back.

Part of him hoped that she'd change the subject. He didn't want that big bright smile to go away. He didn't want her to remember things that made her sad. Things that had hurt her.

But she took a deep breath and leaned back into his arms and continued. “It was hard. Cuz now we know he's an evil creep, but at first he acted really nice. I didn't like-like him, but . . . I was really happy when I thought I'd made a friend. He liked shiny things as much as I do! I really wanted to be his friend!”

She scrunched up her nose and snuggled in closer against Stan's belly.

“But . . . he didn't want to be mine.”

Mabel paused and sniffed, and Stan held her as tight as he dared. She wiped her nose on his undershirt.

“He asked me out,” she continued, “and I _said_ no, but he wouldn’t listen to me, and then it was all ‘oh just one date, give me a chance,’ and so I went on the stupid date because I thought it would shut him up but it didn’t and he kept asking me to more things and he always did it in front of people and he laughed about how I couldn’t say no to him! And I still thought he was nice!”

Stan's breath was coming short. The little . . . he'd picked up curses in at least four languages but he couldn't think of a single word bad enough for what he wanted to say. He'd known the kid was evil, but he hadn't ever thought . . . And the idea that he'd managed to wear her down, to make her say yes when she didn't mean it . . . No one was allowed to do that to Mabel. No one. Not ever.

“I mean . . .” her voice was trembling now. “I know I could have just said 'No! You're being a jerk-face!' and run off. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I didn't want to hurt my—my friend. And then the whole town would have been mad at me . . .”

She broke off for a moment, sniffling into his shirt. That was the last straw. Stan adjusted his hold so he was cradling Mabel in one arm and stood up.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To give that little punk the same message I gave Jimmy! Now where’d I put that shotgun?”

“He’s in jail, Grunkle Stan,” said Mabel. “It’s okay.”

Stan froze. “Wait. Did he . . . he didn't hurt you, did he?”

“What do you mean?” The open, innocent expression on her face was almost answer enough. But not quite.

“I—I mean . . . your dates, did he ever try to . . .”

“Oh!” Mabel's face lit up with understanding. “No, he never kissed me or anything. He held my hand a lot and kept trying to get hugs, but that was all. Oh, and once he tried playing footie under the table until I started swinging my legs and 'accidentally' kicked him in the shin.” She paused. “Three times. And it wasn't accidentally.”

Stan sagged with relief and sunk back down into the chair. “That's my girl. Anyone ever tries anything like that again, you tell me, okay! And if I'm not around to tell, you lay 'em out. I know you've got muscles hiding in those noodle arms! C'mon, show me how you make a fist . . . No, sweetie, thumb goes on the outside . . . there you go . . . Can't believe I haven't showed you this yet . . .”

He was adjusting the shape of her tiny fist when she laid her other hand on top of his and squeezed.

“Grunkle Stan.” He looked up at her. “I'm okay. Gideon didn't hurt me, and he's in jail, and if he does come back we can all kick his butt together.”

“. . . Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

She smiled weakly as Stan let go of her hand and folded her back into his arms. “Hey,” he said, hunching his shoulders down so that he was shielding her from all sides. “It's okay, sweetie. Let's talk about something else. Wanna see what's on that channel with all the terrible spiky-haired boy movies?”

Mabel shook her head. “No. I need to talk to you because—because I went to break things off with Gideon—properly, I made Dipper do it the first time because I couldn't—and I'd made up my mind, but I'd made up my mind all the other times too and he always made me agree to see him again anyway. And I don't know if I could have done it that time either, except that he tried to hurt Dipper and then . . . it was easy to see that he wasn't nice at all. He'd never been nice. I just . . . wanted him to be.”

“You don't need to tell me this,” said Stan desperately. She was shaking, and his shirt was wet with tears and snot, and he needed her to stop, to be happy again, to be _Mabel_ . . .

“Yes I do!” Mabel wailed. “Because I saw how you acted around Jimmy and it was all gross but it was like I'd seen it before but I didn't know where! And then I realized it was like—it was like me and Gideon, and it was _awful,_ Grunkle Stan!”

“Hey.” Stan rocked her back and forth. “He's gone. You're safe.”

Mabel rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I know _I'm_ safe! But what about you?”

Stan froze. “What?”

“I mean, I don't know what happened when you knew him before. But it looked . . . It was like you had a Gideon but you didn't have a Dipper to help you. And you've got us now, and if anyone else tries to be mean to you we'll kick their butt, but what about after the summer?”

“What? I can take care of myself! Seriously, have you seen these fists?” He released his grip on Mabel just enough to wave one hand in front of her to demonstrate.

Mabel had stopped crying. She looked up at him sadly. “But you wouldn't use them until I was in trouble. I know you can fight, like, ghosts or pterodactyls or things. But Jimmy . . . it was like he made you think you couldn't fight him. Like your life wasn't worth fighting for. If we hadn't been there . . .”

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

Because that was the thing, wasn't it? Stan always could have fought. Fighting back was what he was supposed to do, any time the world came down hard on him. If he didn't, he only had himself to blame. Jimmy was taller than he was but Stan had always been bulkier, better muscled. It was part of why he'd fallen in with the bikers in the first place; he'd helped them out in a bar brawl and Jimmy had taken a shine to him. Invited him along. They'd been through more than their fair share of scrapes by the first time it happened; Jimmy knew what Stan's fists could do.

But when Jimmy had pulled him away from the woman he'd been flirting with—successfully, for once—at the sleezy casino they were holed up in and demanded they go talk upstairs, Stan had gone with him. And when Jimmy had growled, “Listen, _kitten_ , I think you misunderstand why I convinced the boys to keep you around,” Stan had just blinked at him in confusion. And when Jimmy pushed him down to demonstrate just what exactly he thought Stan was useful for, Stan had cried out but he hadn't fought. If he hadn't wanted it to happen he would have fought.

And after Jimmy had finished with him and gone back downstairs, leaving Stan staring up at the chipped paint on the crummy hotel ceiling, he hadn't tried to leave. He'd taken a shower and popped three aspirin to help distract him from the pain, and then he'd gone back down to the casino and won a few hands of poker and gotten absolutely hammered, and then later he'd kissed Jimmy in the elevator and watched the smirk spread across his face. “Knew you'd come around,” he'd said.

Drunk people did stupid things. Like keep betting after they'd won a few hands. Like think about calling their family. Like have sex with their friends. That was all it was. He'd been drunk and stupid.

And after that it wasn't so bad. He rode on the back of Jimmy's bike and when they stopped he spent his nights in Jimmy's bed and he didn't think about how it had started. The bikers were his friends, people who would look out for him. He had an official patch on the back of his jacket. He had backup when he got into fights. He had a lover who just had to give him a wink or a smile to leave him blushing like a teenager.

And that was the clincher, wasn't it? If had been that bad, Stan wouldn't have fallen in . . . he wouldn't have stayed. He would have felt happy instead of broken when Jimmy finally rode off and left him to take the fall for a job they'd botched. He wouldn't . . . he wouldn't have missed him.

Not that he could tell Mabel any of that.

“It . . . wasn't always like that,” he said. “It wasn't . . . he wasn't that bad really.”

Mabel shouldn't have been able to pull off such a look of profound skepticism with chocolate and marshmallow stains covering her face from chin to nose, but somehow she managed.

“Grunkle Stan. He came back because he wanted to eat your soul. That does not scream 'great boyfriend material' to me.”

“I mean . . . I wouldn't say 'great,' but . . . Look, it's not like I'm likely to find anything better.”

Mabel wriggled her way out of his arms and stood up on his lap, grabbing his face in her hands so she could stare into his eyes.

“Don't you ever talk like that!” she said.

“I mean, look . . .” Stan shrugged. “I don't have that much to offer, okay? You take what you can get.”

“Not if what you can get is someone who wants to kill you!”

“Hey, that's new!” Stan protested. “Back when I knew him before there were no attempted murders!”

“Yeah, but . . .” Mabel released his face. “Is that really how bad it has to be? I mean, you must think I'm pretty silly talking about Gideon like the worst stuff all happened before he tried to destroy us . . .”

“No! No, but that's . . . different.”

“How?”

“What d'ya mean, how?”

“I mean,” said Mabel, “that it looks to me like the difference is that Jimmy was worse and had more practice. And you were so mad about how Gideon treated me; I get to be mad about how Jimmy treated you!”

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“Yeah!” said Mabel, jutting out her lower lip. “That's how it is!” A thought seemed to strike her, and she added, “Plus! If you get to teach me how to hit people then I get to teach you how to love yourself! That's fair!”

Stan laughed at her stubborn expression. “I don't like your chances, kid.”

“Well, tough! Hey, do you think maybe it'll rub off if I hug you enough?” She leapt up to throw her arms around his neck. “Maybe I can write a 'Stan Awesomeness Song' even though it doesn't rhyme and sing it to you until you believe it!”

He couldn't help but chuckle as he ruffled her hair. He knew that wasn't how things worked, but coming from Mabel he could almost believe it. She had a knack for that. In some ways, she was better than any of the con artists he'd worked with. Better than he was, because she really believed in things like this. She believed, strange and offputting as it was, in him.

“You know,” said Mabel, still clinging to his neck like an extremely affectionate limpet, “Jimmy's stupid and evil and a poop-face, but he was right about one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan tried to think back to the most innocuous comment he'd heard at dinner that first night. It was possible he'd said something like 'The weather is nice today.'

“Yeah. Dipper and I . . . we really do love you, Grunkle Stan.”

This time it was Stan's turn to sniffle, and he'd been doing more than enough of that over the past few days. Men weren't supposed to cry, at least not when other people could see.

He stood up, taking Mabel with him.

“Come on,” he said. “It's way past your bedtime.”

“What about you?”

“I'm an adult,” said Stan. “I don't have a bedtime.”

“I know!” Mabel said. “I was just thinking . . . after the whole Gideon thing I didn’t really want to play with makeup for a while ‘cause it made me think of him and then I’d feel all gross. But then I met Candy and Grenda and we’d do makeovers together and it was fun again.”

Stan grunted. “What’s your point? And it better not be about me trying makeup.”

Mabel giggled. “Well that wasn’t what I was _going_ to say, but we _could_ —”

“Nope. Not happening.”

Mabel took one of his big hands in her small ones and squeezed it tight. “Just . . . if you were sleeping out here because your room felt weird. Cause of Jimmy. Maybe it needs a makeover, so it makes you think of cooler things! Like how makeup makes me think about Candy and Grenda now!”

“Eh.” Stan shrugged. He’d barely been in the room since Jimmy had left. Just long enough to grab clean clothes out of the dresser, strip the bed and put on the spare sheets even though they were flannel and it was still the height of summer. Every time he stepped inside he could feel Jimmy’s hands on him, like some lingering curse. He'd forgotten how much cigarettes could stink up a place, and every time he caught a whiff of Jimmy's Viper Longs it was like he was back on the road. Back in the first town where Jimmy had convinced him to use his car as collateral to bail the rest of the gang out of jail. Back at that crappy casino hotel in Nevada.

But Mabel was holding his hand and looking up at him with a bright, hopeful smile.

“What did you have in mind?” he said.

*

When Dipper came down for breakfast, he frowned suspiciously at the candy wrappers spread out across the kitchen table. It was going to be another one of _those_ mornings. He glanced around him in case Mabel was waiting to leap out like a sugar-fueled rocket, but the house was silent.

He finished his cereal and there was still no sign of his sister. Maybe she’d woken up early and already crashed. She wasn’t upstairs or in the living room, though most of the pillows seemed to have vanished. He was about to go check outside when he saw the trail of confetti leading to Grunkle Stan’s bedroom. The door was already open a crack. Dipper nudged it further with his toe, wincing at the creak.

The room was unrecognizable. Everything was covered in streamers and Nyarf darts and colorful bubbles. It looked like a craft supply war zone. It smelled like that terrifying glitter perfume Mabel had gotten as a present from Candy and Grenda the week before and which Dipper was pretty sure had some kind of supernatural origin, if only Mabel would let him run some experiments on it.

At the foot of the bed, curled up in a nest of pillows and blankets and confetti, was his family. Stan lay on his side and Mabel was asleep with her head on his shoulder and her arms reaching as far as they could go around his chest. It almost looked like she was trying to shield him from something even though she was so much smaller than he was. She blinked muzzily and raised her head at the sound of the door.

“Dippeerrrr!” she said. “Come join the hug nest!”

“Shouldn’t you be getting up?”

“Nope!” Mabel grinned at him. There was confetti crusted to her face and a Nyarf dart in her hair. “Hug nest! Hug nest! Hug nest!”

Dipper rolled his eyes and smiled back at her. He picked his way across the debris scattered on the floor and sat down at the edge of the blankets. Mabel grabbed his arm and yanked him further in. He squawked.

They both froze as Stan stirred in his sleep, curling up tighter and muttering words that Dipper couldn’t make out. His hand reached out, groping at the air. Dipper and Mabel shared a look, then they both reached out and took it.

Mabel whispered something in Stan's ear. It sounded like, “You're safe.” Stan stilled, and a moment later he was snoring again.

“Is everything okay?” Dipper asked.

It was a moment before Mabel answered. “It might take a while,” she said. “But . . . I think it's going to be.”

 


End file.
